


I prefer a pleasant vice

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Family, Friendship, M/M, Multi, OT3, Post-Canon, bros, fabulous gowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21839665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: An unblinking servant came in to light candles. Liselotte wondered, and not for the first time, what training they received in order to remain so unblinking. What must their superiors have said to them, to prepare them for her family?
Relationships: Chevalier de Lorraine/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015), Elisabeth Charlotte | Liselotte/Philippe d'Orléans | Monsieur (Versailles 2015)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 111
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	I prefer a pleasant vice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstaudrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/gifts).



> "I prefer a pleasant vice to an annoying virtue." - Molière

Because they were who they were, life was not always easy. Admittedly, Liselotte was hard pressed to come up with an example of a life lived easily. The king’s life, his enemies would say. Surely that was easy. And it might seem so. Certainly, compared to most, Louis’s life was easy. But…

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” Liselotte observed.

“You’ve changed your tune,” said the Chevalier, just as Philippe said, “It’s a diadem.”

“It’s Shakespeare, you cretin,” she said with a smile, turning away from the window and the purpling gardens and back to the men who she’d begun to consider her husbands, plural. It was an odd situation, and odder still to find herself content in it. Life was not always easy but it could be sweet.

“I see,” said the Chevalier. “Now breathe out.”

This last was not directed to Liselotte, but to Philippe, who was bracing himself against the armoire while the Chevalier laced him into his corset. They were twenty minutes late to their own party because Philippe had decided, at the last possible moment, to wear it. 

“This is why I have a lady’s maid,” said Liselotte, flinging herself down into a chair. “This is what lady’s maids are for.”

“The last one fled the second I asked,” said Philippe. Then he gasped. “Fuck. Warn a man.”

“That was the warning,” snapped the Chevalier. His forehead was matting with sweat. “‘Breathe out’ was the warning.”

“At any rate,” Philippe continued. “She tattled to Maintenon. It’s not proper, apparently.” He darted a glance over his shoulder at fluttered his darkened eyelashes at her. “In case it escaped your notice, I am not a lady.”

He most certainly was not. It was something Liselotte thought about in order to avoid thinking about her children, the one that was taken from her and the one not yet born, the one that still only existed as an idea, a reason to get into bed with her husband. She didn’t need a reason, but he did. If he were a lady, or if she were a gentleman, he would not need a reason.

“A lady would not be so surly when I am only. Trying. To help,” said the Chevalier, yanking three times in quick succession and standing back to survey his work. “There. Beautiful.”

“Not beautiful yet,” said Philippe, crossing to the bed, where his gown was laid out. 

Privately, Liselotte agreed with the Chevalier. The way he moved across the room was, by any reasonable measure, beautiful. Out loud, she said, “Let me help you,” and tried not to inhale the scent of his scalp when he leaned forward into the dress. She tried not to linger too long on the fastenings, either. They climbed his bodice like a delicate ladder. She tried not to think of what it would be like if their roles were reversed, if her hands were big enough to hold his waist.

By the mirror, the Chevalier was mopping his brow and inspecting his hair. “We’ll be late,” he said. He did not sound displeased. “We’ll make an entrance.”

A knock at the door and an unblinking servant came in to light candles. Liselotte wondered, and not for the first time, what training they received in order to remain so unblinking. What must their superiors have said to them, to prepare them for her family?

“You look pensive,” said Philippe. He was standing very close. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Liselotte said briskly. She examined him. “Your lips need redoing. Next time wait until after the Chevalier sees you. It saves time.”

“How wise you are,” said the Chevalier, having the grace to look slightly abashed. He’d looked the same three months ago, when, approaching from behind in the salon, he’d mistaken Liselotte for Philippe and pinched her sharply on the bottom. His profuse apologies were worse than the pinch itself. Liselotte remembered seeing him with Delphine all those months and thinking, _ah, I didn’t anticipate that._

Another knock at the door, but this time Louis sailed in. From her shallow curtsey, Liselotte thought to look over at her husband and caught him doing the same. He saw her looking and smiled. She winked. He smiled wider. 

“What’s keeping you all,” Louis said. “I can’t been seeing cooling my heels while you curl your hair. It’s not allowed, according to the rules _you_ set down.” 

“I don’t have to curl my hair,” said Philippe. 

“Lies,” said Louis. That dispensed with, he surveyed the room, the three of them. “Sister,” he said, and Liselotte curtseyed again. “You look very pretty.”

“Thank you, your highness,” she said.

The Chevalier coughed.

Louis rolled his eyes. “You look very pretty too, Lorraine. You all look pretty. Now can we please process in an orderly fashion to the party you have insisted on throwing? Against my wife’s implicit instructions?”

“You’re attending,” Philippe observed, picking up his fan. 

“Yes,” said Louis, in that final tone he had. Liselotte had never heard anything like it. It shut off all opposition.

Almost all opposition. “So I would say we had royal permission,” said Philippe.

Philippe was very still. The Chevalier coughed again. Liselotte imagined the child they would have, all three of them, if it were possible: a child with big blue eyes and wild hair and no shame. Life would not be easy for this child, because it never was, but maybe there was some hope for happiness. Philippe had had to relearn a more mundane happiness each time he came back from the battlefield. It was possible.

Louis sighed. “I suppose.”

“Then I say we go down. We mustn’t keep the king waiting.” And Philippe took his brother’s arm. 

The Chevalier held his out for her. “Shall we?”

Later, Liselotte would remember this moment. In its inevitability, it was no different from all the other moments they had together, but she would remember it. She would remember it when, finally, as though it was foretold, the three of them did fall into bed together. She would remember it when Philippe again went off to fight, and again returned, and again had to be returned to his old self. She would remember it when the Chevalier pushed his luck, again and again, but didn’t go anywhere, never went anywhere, never forsook them. She would remember it when she was the last one, alone of all of them, Philippe gone, the Chevalier gone, Louis gone. She would remember how natural it was to be happy, even when nothing about it was easy. How bold it was. How hard earned. How good.


End file.
